


Turn and Turn About

by JoJo



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Fever, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 16:04:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5592514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoJo/pseuds/JoJo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although it might not always seem so, theirs is a relationship of equals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn and Turn About

**Author's Note:**

> *memory fail* written for a prompt, I think, back in Feb 2015, but I have no idea whether it was fic_promptly, mag7daybook or something else... if I discover or am apprised I will update this note :)

Chris poked at one of the more misshapen of the logs with a stick of kindling. Sparks flew and there was a crackle. The firelight flared against his eyes. 

Over in the corner of the cabin there was a pile of similarly hacked lumps of fuel almost up to the ceiling. Ezra wasn’t highly skilled when it came to chopping firewood, but he’d certainly put his back into it. They were going to be warm – and therefore alive – for at least another few days. Outside the windows, the snow continued to fall and the wind had gotten up again. Chris shivered, despite the heat.

“You feeling unwell again?” a concerned voice asked and Chris looked over to the cot, to see Ezra struggling out of sleep.

“I’m fine.” His voice sounded raspy and thin, and his chest hurt.

“Shouldn’t be up.” Ezra swung his legs to the floor, determined.

Chris’s forehead bunched in a frown. “Take some more rest for cryin’ out loud,” he said, gruff, and then couldn’t hold in a cough. 

“I think you still have everything backwards, Mr. Larabee. You are the invalid of this household.”

Chris felt a feverish smile play at his lips. ‘This household’... Ezra never ceased to surprise him.

“Well I ain’t going to be the only one if you don’t do your fair share of sleepin’.”

“Let’s not argue about it.” Ezra shoved his twice-socked feet into his boots and stood up. His hair was unwashed and wild, his eyes baggy, and there was almost nothing about him at the moment that suggested the clean and dapper Ezra they all knew from town.

In truth Chris couldn’t have argued about anything, even if he’d wanted to. And he didn’t want to. Despite how ill he’d felt, these last few days with Ezra, hunkered in here together against the snowstorms, had been like an oasis. Or maybe that was because he’d been so out of it, didn’t appreciate what a mess they were in. And now he didn’t feel like dying maybe he was candy coating the whole experience. 

Chris looked back to the firelight, blinking in fatigue, shoulders sagging. A moment later the stick of kindling was removed from his loose grip and deposited in the flames. Ezra sank down on his haunches, one hand on Chris’s knee for balance. He looked straight into his eyes, searching, before the other reached to feel his forehead.

“It’s the fire,” Chris said on a croak when he saw Ezra’s jaw tighten.

Ezra cupped his face, frowning. Just like Nathan would. The cool tenderness of the touch made Chris’s eyelids droop, in spite of himself. He felt the backs of Ezra’s fingers lightly touch his other cheek, then card through his hair. It was shocking, somehow, that a gesture so intimate had become so familiar, so vital, in the last few days. He could hardly explain it, hardly explain the mixture of yearning and gratitude he felt. Except , of course, that it was probably fever.

“I’m going to make some more of that tea anyhow,” Ezra said, half to himself. He blew out a breath, as if suddenly realizing his own weariness. “And you should go back to bed.”

Chris dragged his eyes open, regretting the loss of contact. “Been lyin’ down for days.”

“Which would be because you can’t stand up.”

Chris did indeed wonder if he was about to be capsized, even sitting in the chair. “Hell,” he said. His head felt heavy as he swung his gaze towards the cot, calculating how much effort it would take him to get there.

“Here.” Ezra rose from his squat, ducked rather clumsily under his shoulder. 

“I can...”

“No, Mr. Larabee, you can’t.” Ezra’s tone was sharp, as if his nerves had been scraped. Then it softened as he took the weight. “Just lean on me. How many times do we have to play this scene?”

Chris felt as if he were watching himself, staggering across the room draped over Ezra. His legs were shaky as he half sat himself, and was half lowered, on to the cot with its piled up quilts and rugs. They’d lain together here more than once, wonderfully drunk with passion and whisky, but occupancy had been strict turn and turn about the last few days. He was glad of the space now, glad to let Ezra swing his boneless legs up, settle him back on the pillows and draw the warmth around him. After a while he became aware that he was being encouraged to drink.

“Not this again,” he managed to rasp. The wet bark smell drifted across his face and he took an obedient sip. Then another. “Ugh,” he said.

“Nathan swears by it, which would not normally be a recommendation in my book - but it did seem to help last night.”

Last night? Chris remembered shivering, sweating, rolling over to cough. Then a calm voice in the dark, like daylight breaking through.

“’m better than last night,” he said. “Jus’ tired now.” He tried to push away the cup, wanting sleep.

“Few more sips. Come on now.”

Chris’s desire to object and resist kicked in, but he’d learned over the last seventy two hours that Ezra had a goddamned will of iron when it came to nursemaiding him. He took several more swallows of the warm liquid, wincing at the aftertaste. Then he heard the cup being laid aside.

“Wind’s dropped,” Ezra observed. “Maybe Mother Nature’s standing down.”

It would really be about time. Snow must have almost buried them by now. They’d have to wait for Vin and the boys to get through, come dig them out. Wouldn’t be tonight though. Not tomorrow either. 

Chris shifted in the cot, trying to get comfortable. He couldn’t open his eyes properly, although he knew Ezra was sitting next to him on the lumpy, moth-eaten armchair.

“You should eat,” he murmured, feeling sleep sliding across his senses. He had an idea that Ezra said something sweet to him, smoothed his hair again. Or maybe that was already a dream.

*

When he woke, there was a bright, glaring light coming in through the panes. There was plenty snow out there all right, but seemed like it wasn’t falling anymore. To Chris it felt like hours and days had passed since he’d drunk the yarrow tea and fallen asleep, although he knew it couldn’t have been. 

He felt warm. Not the clinging warmth of fever either. His chest still hurt, but not in the heavy, pressing way from before. He cleared his throat, pushed on to his elbows, aware of his surroundings in a way he hadn’t been in too long a time.

The fire had evidently been kept stoked, but it had burned down very low now. There was a faint glow but that was all.

Chris’s head turned stiffly to the side. 

In the armchair, Ezra was asleep, head drooped. One arm was dangling to the floor, fingers slightly curled. The skin on his wrist was smooth and delicate, encased in its fine lawn cuff, faintly grubby in a way that made Chris’s throat feel tight. Ezra’s breathing was regular, but hellish congested.

Pushing away his blankets and maneuvering to a sitting position, Chris leaned over the space between them, touched the lax hand.

Icy as the snow outside the goddamned window.

He pressed it tight between his own, squeezed hard. His head felt clearer than it had done in days. Years maybe.

“My turn now,” he said, voice rough with tenderness. “My turn now.”


End file.
